


Waiting for the Bus in the Rain

by afractionof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Mass amount of references to a lot of things, Night Vale Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afractionof/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And with just one look, listeners, I have fallen instantly in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the Bus in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PresquePommes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresquePommes/gifts).



> This is a bit late and after starting it over repeatedly, I'm finally happy with what came out. Though, I have to warn you, it's an odd mix of a lot of odd things and very shameless references.
> 
> As a warning, the opening is very dialogue heavy. 
> 
> So, here you are. Happy Birthday, Kale, even if it was yesterday. Hope you enjoy and had a good one.

_“Alright, Listeners, something magical has happened, so hold onto your seats, go ahead to take a few moments to buckle yourselves up nice and tight because we are doing this. We’re going on a magic carpet ride right down the middle of Bay Street to the corner of 32nd where today, with just one look, I have fallen instantly in love.”_

\-----

“Good morning, good morning, listeners. In case some of you are just tuning in— and let’s face it, how many of you don’t want to hear this again, hm?— let’s do a little run down on this fine establishment of a radio station and its choice location right here at this specific corner. We’re talkin’ the best seats in the house up in here, front row, right off the bus stop, jogging distance from that salty, ocean water and a food court with take-out to die for. 

“Speaking of which, if you’re down there, gettin’ your lunch on or just want a drink for that hot, hot, hot walk up to the bus stop, definitely check out some of that a ’la cart goodness from our own very proud sponsor, Mr. Cho’s Noodle Cart. 

“Thank you, Old Man Cho, you make this drivel possible. Without you, we’d surely starve. Hope you’re proud. 

“Now, we’ve got it made here, kids—great place to set up shop, great sponsors, great coffee—but the view is, by far, the best thing about this place and let me tell you exactly why. 

“If you saunter your fine, fine pair of faded jeans down to this corner, I’m going to get a nice view of that new purse you’re packin’, you feel me? You walk to work, hop that bus? Bam, you are officially in this eagle eye view. You have been scoped. But, I gotta say sorry to all the ladies out there, dropping numbers into the suggestions box and to a few of you handsome gentleman doing the same, those days of flirtatious intonation and award winning pick-up lines are long, long gone. 

“This guy is firmly on the shelf. 

“You know, the one where I sit here and not-so-quietly pine after the most perfect pair of blue eyes this side of the state line and, I mean, if we’re gettin’ serious, how about we even go as far at the equator. 

“Exaggeration?

“Absolutely not. 

“These eyes are to die for, primed for drowning in— topped off with a smile only a real sweetheart could pull off and that beautiful, beautiful salt and pepper hair. Yep, that’s right. I’m a sucker for that silver streak, man. We’re talkin’ dignified as all get out, that little bit of light hair right above the ears—Per. Fec. Tion. 

“Absolute perfection.

“Now, this guy’s new in town, and it’s pretty obvious. He’s got his route to work marked down to a T and he’s way, way to polite for someone with only so much change in his pocket, listeners. He’s going to be broke if he ever works his way down to the docks and meets some of those talented dudes out there makin’ music down by Pike’s. 

“But, hey, we all know how it goes, right? 

“Speaking of music though, it’s that time where I can it for a good five minutes and let you listen to some real talent while you await my return. The coffee’s callin’, keep your headphones in because who doesn’t love Marina and the Diamonds? 

“That’s what I thought.”

You set the song to play and slide your chair back. Your headphones hit the desk with the light clatter you’re used to and you stand, lifting your arms above your head as you stretch.

Note to self: by new chair. 

You’ve got a couple minutes to spare. The ‘coffee’ you talked about is little more than brown water you fish out of the old pot in the kitchen but you’re not complaining. You’re pretty sure it’s got enough caffeine in it to knock out a small horse or two, maybe a baby elephant, and, as they say, you get what you give, or in your case, pay for—which is to say, nothing because you don’t pay for anything here, Bro does. 

The converted ‘sun room’ isn’t really what you’d call a radio station. It’s more like your bedroom but it’s what you’ve got and it does have a perfect view of the bus stop, at least when you’ve got your binoculars handy but that’s completely beside the point. 

The point is, you’re going to have a bowl of fruit loops and a cup of that brown, gritty water because it’s Thursday and you haven’t bothered to go out and stock up on anything more than dry cereal you put into a bowl just because you can’t stand eating it out of the box. 

You’re a classy guy, after all. 

You get your fruit loops and check the clock before walking over to the window. There’s a curtain covering it, mauve or taupe or some stupid shade of you-give-no-actual-fucks that Bro grabbed at the bargain bin in Ross, and, as per routine, you wonder why the hell you haven’t yanked the stupid thing off its hanger and tossed it in the trash. When you yank it aside, however, you’re reminded. 

\--the light. 

It’s that bright light you sometimes get on mildly dreary days, natural and reflective against every silver surface and turned mirror in the vicinity, and you squint as your eyes adjust to the overcast glow from the low hanging clouds. 

That’s the one thing you really love about Seattle and this apartment though. Even when it’s raining, it’s not dark like it used to get in Texas. These clouds don’t leave the sky black and green and looking like death is about to strike at any second. They’re softer and not pouring down buckets—generally, at least— but a steady drizzle on the days they actually produce water. 

Today is not one of those days, thankfully, and your view of the street is left un-obscured by colorful raincoats and the occasional, well-meaning umbrella that inevitably gets in the way of ten people just trying to get on the bus before it leaves their ass behind in the rain. 

A glance at the clock lets you know that you’ve got about four minutes before a black coat and neatly placed hat will be moving down the street for an early lunch and you don’t bother to fight off a smile. No one’s around to see you anyway and anyone that gest unlucky enough to tune in to your show knows just what you’re looking for. 

You set the bowl in the sink and move over to hurry and drag your table closer to the window before your time is up and you’re late.

Wouldn’t want to keep the masses waiting, now would you? 

Your timing seems to have been a little off today and after you make sure all the cables are still hooked up and nothing’s in danger of snapping, you down the rest of your coffee-water as quickly as possible and sit back down, settling the headphones back on your ears. The song ends, tapering off with its usual notes and your clear your throat before activating the mic once more. 

“And that was a song by a person with much more musical talent than I will ever have. 

But, it’s that time of the day and I’m sure you all know what that means. 

You’ve got it—the countdown has begun, the seconds are ticking by and my window seat has been warmed. I am primed and ready to melt into a ridiculous puddle of stereotypical filth and harp on how this one man whose name I don’t know that completely stops my heart in its mushy little tracks.” 

Leaning against the sill, you feel the slow spread of your smile start as a trim, black hat comes into view at the far end of the street. Occasionally, you think white might suit him better but the stains it’d collect from the stray drops of water thrown by the cars on the street and any number of over-hangs usually change your mind. He’s taken the more practical route and it looks good either way, in your opinion. You don’t need your binoculars to know that he’s probably wearing the same suit and tie, holding the same, beaten up old umbrella and smiling the same old smile but you lift them anyway, just to get a glimpse of those pearly whites and, before you can stop yourself, you’re sighing. 

“I think I’m running out of things to talk about here, guys, but I will never get tired of telling you just how wonderful this smile is. I’ve tried to explain it tons of times but the poet in me is literally nonexistent it seems and my failure has been heard across the wire. 

But I’ll try once more since y’all are so insistent. 

So, close your eyes and imagine yourself in my shoes, or perhaps your own, mine might not fit, after all. This story is about you anyway—you imagining that perfect smile, that perfect hair, that perfect man you’ve heard so much about.

And his smile is soft but honest and there’s a little edge at the corner that lets you know that this man is serious—about what, you’re not really sure but you think that maybe it’s about his job, or perhaps his family because here, in this particular, very practical fantasy-land, you’re under no false impressions that he might not be taken right down to a ring on his finger. A man like that has got have a rather large handful of admirer’s, much like yourself. 

But, back to his smile. 

It’s perfect. It’s really that simple—the sincerity is just oozing out of every crack between those white teeth and you can see exactly how nice he’s got to be just by glancing up at those blue eyes. 

And, boy, oh boy, are they ever blue. 

Blue like the sky when it’s clear and fresh out. Blue like that ocean water you saw in the last article you read in National Geographic. Blue like that light coloring around the edges of a Van Gogh down at the art museum for a limited time only.” 

Half way through your monologue, you run out of things you can use to describe this kind of blue but it doesn’t matter much because, behind you, the lock’s rattling and you know it’s only a matter of seconds before the door opens and you’re rudely interrupted. 

“And… it looks like your story is being cut short. 

“Sorry, folks.

“Management has returned and the jiggling of the rusty old door handle is enough to make me slump over in my seat and give absolutely zero scruffy little rodent behinds. 

“Welcome home, Management, you’ve successfully interrupted what was sure to be a lovely two-minutes of my waxing homopoetic.

“Thank you, thank you so much. 

“A round of applause from our listeners to you. 

But, never fear, we do have a plus side,” you ramble, rolling your eyes when Bro finally pushes through the door and flips you the bird. “An accurate reading on the weather, at last. It is, apparently, dry for the moment. 

“That is all.” 

“It’s cold too,” Bro tells you, shaking a bag of what looks like canned soup in your direction and you wave a hand, brushing him off for the moment. 

“According to our sources, it’s cold. How shocking that this city would experience a late-morning chill. Quite shocking indeed. I can hardly stand all of these shocked feelings up in here. 

"But, I regret to inform you that I must cut this one a bit short. 

"Management looks a bit cranky this evening and who knows what might happen if I neglect to follow orders, hm? I certainly wouldn’t want to find out. 

"Until this evening, Listeners— may your bus standing and other modes of waiting for your transportation be as dry as the weather report and, as always, safe.” 

You shut down the microphone, unhook the broadcast cables and slide everything back to the center of the room. The curtain falls back, covering the window once more and you wander over to poke around the bags Bro dragged in. 

It looks like you’re no longer left chowing down on that delightful boxed cereal and your stomach growls a bit just thinking about it.

“What’d you get?” 

“Why d’you care?” 

You shrug, bending down to put some sponges under the sink. “I gotta eat too.” 

He sighs, shaking his head but when you glance up you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch—he’s not fooling anybody here. “Get a job, then you can eat.” 

“I have a job,” you inform him and he throws a pack of bendy straws at you. 

“A real job, not waxin’ homopoetic over some guy you ain’t ever met.” 

He’s got a point but you’re not going to tell him that. Instead, you’re going to stand up and grab a bag filled with noodles to stack in the cabinet. “Because selling puppet porn is so much better.” 

“Pays the bills.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

There’s silence for a moment, only interrupted when you catch him humming the chorus of the song you just played and you have to bite back a smile. 

You know Bro’s a consistent listener. You’d been more than a little embarrassed to find out when he’d unceremoniously asked why you’d stolen his binoculars to creep on some dude, but he’d never poked much fun at you about it and knowing that made it easier to sit around and talk out your feelings to the static universe of AM radio at all hours of the day. 

He didn’t tease you beyond a couple jabs at your wording and the obvious lack of explicit phrasing. But, fuck, it’s a radio station—a public one—you can’t swear on that shit unless he wants to be paying your way out of fines every six seconds.

“Speakin’ of,” he starts and you almost groan. 

Bro makes being a little ‘quiet’ into an art. He never wants to talk about shit and when he does you’re never prepared and it’s never good. 

And today he’s apparently got something to say.

“Why don’t you stop starin’ at the guy and go talk to ‘im.” 

You won’t lie and say that’s what you’d really been expecting but, hey, it’s not the worst thing that could have come out of his mouth either and it’s been a little while since he bugged you about your romantic interests.

At least you know how the conversation is likely to go. 

“Yeah, no.” 

“Why the hell not?” 

You shrug again, shaking your head as you stuff soup in after the noodles. “Right. And tell him what? ‘Hi, yeah, I run a radio show centered around talking about how I watch you from my window every week day as you go to work, nothin’ creepy about that, man, it’s all good, wanna go to dinner’? No, fuck that. You don’t just waltz up to some classy dude like that and start talking about how much of a fucked up stalker you actually sound like when you say it out loud.” 

“It ain’t stalkin’ to look.” 

“And the gold medal of the parenting Olympics goes to not-you because you’re supposed to discourage this shit, Bro, c’mon. I thought we talked about this.” 

“Hey,” he says, holding up his hands in a less than placating manner that’s further ruined by the smirk threatening to take over his face. “You’re not a kid anymore, not my problem if you wanna peer out windows at old dude. Just talkin’ man t’man, I don’t see how it’s any different than all that starry eyed, coffee shop horseshit they try to sell in the movies.” 

“Our coffee tastes like shit.” 

“Ain’t the point, kid.” 

“It’s not happening,” you tell him, snapping the cupboard shut and turning. You’re done helping, he can do the rest if he wants to nag at you about stupid things. “So forget it.” 

He doesn’t respond beyond sighing and mumbling something unintelligible under his breath, thankfully, and you’re able to make your escape. 

You’ve had this talk ten separate times and it’s always the same. You appreciate the encouragement—as weirdly misplaces as it might be— but damn, what the hell would you honestly say to a guy like that? 

Making your way back over to your area of the apartment, you pause at the window and pull the curtain back just enough to get another glimpse of the street. 

You missed your chance for today but it’s not like you won’t get another one soon. He’s got to go back to work, after all, then home and—fuck, you feel like a creep now. 

God, what kind of fucked up shit is that anyway… spying on some guy that’s probably got a wife, couple kids, working the big time in some high end corporate job. No one just walks around in a suit like that if they don’t have the money and the sturdy oak desk to back it up with. 

And here you are just talking into some second cheap headset mic, likely to no one, jobless and scarfing down dry cereal between breaks you personally space. 

It’s kind of pathetic and if it were anyone but you, you’d probably laugh yourself hoarse. 

Unfortunately, it is you. And you don’t find much humorous about how you’ve spent the last few weeks of your life when you actually take a moment to reflect back on them.

Which is all too easy and not something you’re really prepared to do at the moment, needed or not. Rehashing your jobless, loveless state is just asking for trouble. 

That thought in mind, you grab your computer and flop down on the couch. Pesterchum is lit up and waiting when the screen loads in and you open up the flashing windows. 

Rose is going on about how she hopes management didn’t bring out the big guns this time and would like to politely remind you that ‘homopoetic’ isn’t actually a word. You quickly inform her that it is, indeed, a word and you’re going to homopoetic her right of her high, lesbian stallion. 

You don’t bother to read her protest that stallions can’t be lesbians and you might be due for another session with the Tentacle Therapist because no.

No is why and pestering John sounds like a much safer option. You don’t know how Rose found out about your show anyway, or how she manages to listen to it, and as much as you appreciate her keeping her mouth shut about your obvious infatuation with a guy you’ve never met, sometimes talking to her about it is kind of like willingly throwing yourself on the smoldering coals of the psychoanalytical god’s awaiting alter. 

You swear to god, if you have to hear about Freudian theory and the symbolically concerning nature of dreaming about dicks one more time your liver is going to spontaneously explode. 

John is definitely much safer. 

John doesn’t have any idea you’re waxing anything over anyone and as far as bros go, he’s the best there is, the epitome of good distractions, the brolyest of men. 

\--turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 11:39am--

TG: sup egbert  
TG: hows it going in the land of cake and sugary shit  
TG: yo  
TG: are you seriously doing this right now  
TG: you better be in some deep shit man  
TG: john  
TG: johnny  
TG: johnny eggs  
TG: humpty dumpty sat on a wall  
TG: humpty dumpty had really big teeth  
TG: oh wait  
TG: its just you  
TG: john  
TG: put the bunny back in the box

\--ectoBiologist [EB] is now an idle chum!--

TG: god damn it john  
TG: i did not just say that  
TG: i did not just reference you disgusting taste in movies  
TG: so that you could be afk  
TG: damn it

John is also apparently a dumbass that left his computer on. 

Again. 

You slump over, cheek squished against the side of the couch and ignore the still-blinking light at the bottom of your screen for all of thirty seconds before you give in and scroll through the earlier messages with Rose. 

\--tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:17am--

TT: As much as I enjoy your obscure word choice, I feel the need to inform you that ‘homopoetic’ is not actually a word.  
TT: Nice try, however.  
TG: it is too  
TT: I’m afraid not.  
TG: yeah well  
TG: just watch  
TG: ill homopoetic you right off that pony of yours  
TG: wait  
TG: make it a stallion  
TG: a lesbian stallion  
TG: ill homopoetic you right off your lesbian stallion  
TT: I hope you realize that stallions are, in fact, male and are incapable of being lesbians.  
TT: Though, it’s quite interesting to see your continued insistence on using men in any situation.  
TT: I wonder, do we need to have a talk again, Dave? Have the dreams come to a standstill or have they, perhaps, increased in frequency?  
TT: Your current affections may be having some sort of impact. It’s very important you be as thorough as possible when you ignore my questions.  
TT: I know you’ll answer them in the long run so it’s best to be prepared.  
TT: We wouldn’t want you falling behind, after all. These sessions are very important.  
TG: jesus fuck lalonde  
TG: do you ever stop and look at how creepy you sound  
TT: This coming from the man who hosts a radio show centered around watching a particularly handsome man through a pair of binoculars as he makes his way to work.  
TT: But, I digress and, of course, you have my sincerest apologies.  
TT: I was not aware that my interest in your wellbeing had such negative association.  
TG: can you not  
TT: Can I not what, precisely?  
TG: so theres this guy  
TT: Ah, it’s one of those days, I see.  
TG: and hes perfect  
TG: obviously  
TG: you know  
TG: my good taste and all  
TT: Of course.  
TG: anyway  
TG: perfect  
TG: you might have heard of him once or twice  
TG: some lame fucker does this radio thing  
TG: never shuts up about him  
TT: I may have caught wind of such a thing once or twice.  
TG: hes perfect  
TG: and im not  
TG: the end  
TG: good story  
TG: glad we could share that  
TT: It was a little lacking in the details but I’ll say give you a gold star for the start. I look forward to seeing it fleshed out in all its glory.  
TT: However…  
TT: I’m a bit concerned by your sudden change of mind and your recent declaration.  
TT: Did my eyes deceive me or did Dave Strider just claim himself to be anything less than godly in the most un-ironic of ways?  
TG: you heard right  
TG: one time thing  
TG: special performance just for you lalonde  
TG: striders arent perfect  
TG: at least this ones not  
TT: Dave.  
TG: rose  
TT: Is everything all right?  
TG: everythings great  
TG: peachy as fuck  
TG: the peachiest

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face as you glance to the side, eyes travelling to the window once more. 

You’re tempted to get up and grab your binoculars. You’re not really sure why though—it wouldn’t do any good right now anyway and you quickly dismiss the notion all together. You’re not interested in any of the other people milling about. 

You’re only interested in one, you think, rolling your eyes at yourself. 

Dramatics don’t’ really become you but you’re going to indulge yourself anyway. 

That’s right. Goldie Hawn ain’t got shit on you. 

All you need now is a pile of blankets, some questionable cinema, and a pint of ice cream to top of the pity party you’re only mildly serious about throwing yourself. It’s tempting—very tempting—but Bro’s home and you’d have to share your ice cream and fuck that. 

TT: I’m not going to even pretend I believe you. But I won’t push, for the time being.   
TT: However, if you feel like talking about it in a more mature, less delusional manner, my eyes and ears are, as always, yours.   
TT: It’s not good to keep things in, as we’ve discussed on numerous occasions. 

She worries about you and it’s obvious, even with the clipped tone you have a habit of hearing her words in. 

You’re not sure how that makes you feel but you think you’re smiling a little bit even as you sigh. 

Lalonde, Lalonde, Lalonde… meddling as always but somehow you always let her. 

TG: yeah yeah  
TG: i know  
TG: but fuck lalonde  
TG: what the hell even is this  
TG: its nothing  
TG: its some loser sitting in his apartment talking about a stranger  
TG: some strange thatd probably flip his lid if he ever found out  
TT: So, perhaps you should leave your apartment and become less of a strange and more of an acquaintance.  
TG: oh god   
TG: not you too  
TT: Too?  
TG: bro thinks i should go talk to him  
TT: Ah, I see.   
TT: And I completely agree.  
TG: what the fuck do i say to him  
TT: You could start with ‘hello’ and then I suppose introducing yourself would be the next step in polite conversation.  
TG: ha ha  
TG: so funny  
TT: Indeed, comedy was surely my true calling. It’s a pity my interests took a different route.  
TG: and then after that  
TG: what  
TG: hi i stalk you from my window but i never go outside  
TT: Dave, you do realize that there’s no way he’s going to know that unless you actively tell him, do you not?  
TT: I highly doubt he’s going to bring it up and, if he does, you’re likely capable of deciding which route to take upon hearing his response.  
TT: Many people would be flattered to be on the receiving end of your affections, however creepy they may or may not seem to be.   
TG: you of all people aren’t allowed to call me creepy  
TT: I wouldn’t dream of it.   
TG: sure  
TG: right  
TG: okay  
TG: so say i do go up and say hi  
TG: i cant just ask him out at the bus stop  
TT: And why not?  
TG: this isnt a chick flick lalonde  
TG: you cant just do that shit  
TT: Your list of excuses is growing very thin. I’m fairly impressed with your need to grasp at straws in such an obvious situation.   
TT: Do you often feel the need to try and convince yourself seemingly normal things are, shall we say, inadvisable or somehow wrong based on how people might perceive your desires?   
TG: stay out of my head  
TT: You all but wrote me a personalized invitation, Strider, it’s impossible to simply ignore such a prime opportunity.  
TG: its been rescinded  
TT: Such poor manners.

You shake your head and type out some lame excuse about a shower and not wanting to totally stink out the entire complex. She doesn’t sound too impressed with you but you snap the computer closed anyway and push it off onto one of the cushions. 

They make it sound so simple—just say ‘hi’, don’t be such a dipshit, it’s obvious, Strider. 

Right. 

Obvious. 

When you roll over and bury your face in the ugly fabric, you groan, not because you’re particularly frustrated or anything, you just want to. 

It’s a groan worthy kind of day and you doubt tomorrow will be any different. 

And, as it happens, you’re psychic because tomorrow is, in fact, no different. 

Neither is the-day-after-tomorrow or the day after that and, damn, are you good or what?

Totally called that shit. 

You get up, do the usual hygiene thing and fire up your radio equipment then chat your day away to the empty space. Bro’s been giving you all kinds of thin lipped, impassive looks over the last few days and to the untrained eye you’d think he was just admiring the ugly wallpaper plastered behind your head. 

Your eye is far from untrained, however, and you know he’s watching you, waiting for the moment when he’s had enough and inevitably makes you listen to a bunch of horseshit you don’t want to listen to. 

You settle for complaining on your show in a passive aggressive manner Lalonde had better be fucking proud of. 

He doesn’t say anything when he comes home though and you two eat in the normal semi-silence while you watch whatever catches your fancy on the television. 

It’s not until Friday, when the door is shoved open and a bag is thrown at your face, that you really start to worry that maybe it was too good to be true.

He’s not going to just drop it. 

Your headphones pull your hair as they’re knocked off and you barely manage to disable the microphone before you bite out a sharp ‘fuck you’ and question what the ever-loving fuck his problem is. 

“You,” he tells you simply and your eyes widen. A little rush of shock and old panic shoots through your chest before you shove it aside and stand up.

“What kind of stick got stuck up your ass?” 

His lips twitch, drawing up in a lazy smirk and you regret your words before he even opens his mouth to respond. “You really wanna know, kid?” 

Fuck no you don’t—but you’re not about to actually tell him that. You can’t back down once you’ve said it, no matter how stupid ‘it’ happened to be, and you change the subject instead. It’s not much better but it’s preferable to a blatant, all-out surrender. 

“What’s this?” You ask instead, pulling two lumps of cloth and a receipt you immediately toss from the bag. 

“The hell’s it look like?” 

To be honest it looks kind of like a pile of recycled felt, only in some dodgy grass color. There’s a pale sleeve sticking out somewhere in the bagged mess and when you pull them apart your mouth drops open before you can stop it. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You wasted cash on this?” 

He walks over, coming to stand beside you and from the corner of your vision you see him shrug. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“Bro, it’s the color of fucking moldy grass.” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

“Is this wool?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Oh, god, it’s wool.” 

“Stop your complaining and put the damn thing on.” 

You drop it like it caught fire and shake your head. “Fuck. No. Burn that shit, it’s a crime.” 

You can practically feel Bro roll his eyes as he bends down and picks up the pile of cloth. The white shirt is pretty simple, just a button up and, yeah, that’s acceptable enough but there’s no way in all that’s holy or unholy that you’re wearing a green sweater vest. 

“You gotta look nice when you go meet Mr. Perfect Grey Hair.” 

“His hair isn’t grey,” you snap, wiggling around him to step toward the bathroom. You need a shower. Or a bath. A bath doesn’t sound too bad and maybe with enough salts you’ll be able to forget that Bro ever thought he knew how to dress you. 

You might have been four at the time but you’ll never forgive him for the reindeer incident. 

“Sure it ain’t.” 

“It’s not. It’s black with just a little white at the sides.” 

“Whatever you say, kid.” 

“And this isn’t nice. This is some level of hideous monstrosity I don’t even want to consider yanking over my head.” 

You’re pretty sure he rolls his eyes again but you ignore it and kick the bathroom door shut behind you. You doubt it’ll stop him and you can almost count the second before it opens again and he steps through. 

“What are you doing?” 

He shrugs and you’re not sure why you bothered in the first place. 

“Stop sittin’ around and procrastinating.” 

“I’m not procrastinating. What do I have to procrastinate over anyway?” 

“Your future.” 

That catches you a little off guard and you pause, staring at him. Your feel your lips purse, your eyebrows lift and what? When the fuck did he take a dip in the motivational tank? 

You almost ask him what the fuck that was about but he beats you to it, dismissing your obvious confusion with a wave of his hand. 

“Don’t give me that look. Put the sweater on, man up, and stop pinin’ away behind that shitty desk of yours and fuckin’ talk to him.” 

“We’ve been over this.” 

“And I’m tired of hearin’ your lame excuses, kid. Suck it up. This is serious and, shit, you can’t stare out a window forever. Dude’s old, he’s gonna kick the bucket before you get your shit together some somethin’ tragic like that.” 

“He’s not that old.” 

“The fuck do you know? Never talked to him, have you?” 

That settles a little further under your skin than you like and your shoulders tense as you try not to scowl and probably fail because fuck him. 

Fuck him and Rose and all of their crap about this and fuck that fucking sweater. Where the fuck did Bro even get that thing? 

You get that it doesn’t seem like a big deal to them. It’s not even a thing, for the most part—asking people out. 

Any other person on any other given day. 

Not even a deal. Fine, it’s cool.

But this time it is. 

It’s a thing and you’re not going out there. 

In that sweater. 

Ever. 

You don’t have anything to say to a guy that you’ve talked up in your head and you sure as fuck don’t even know where to start with what to say to the real one that’s actually out there in the world somewhere.

“Get out. I want to shower.” 

For once he listens to you, setting the clothes down on the counter with a pointed look before he turns and leaves. He even shuts the door and you let out a sigh of relief when you feel it click into place. You consider flipping the lock but you know it’s not even worth it. There’s no point really so you just leave it. 

He’ll come in if he wants to. You don’t even care.

Reaching up, you rub your hands over you face before starting up the water. You’re here to shower, ignore the ugly mass of cloth on the counter, and forget Bro’s sudden desire to encourage you out the house and into the pants of a guy at least twice your age. 

You strip, not even waiting for the water temperature to level out before you jump in. It’s cold and you let out a strangled sound as you grab for the hot water and turn it up to full, rubbing down your arms as you wait for ‘frozen’ to turn into something at least bearable.

It warms slowly, a little too slowly for your tastes, but your usual level of verbal abuse saved for shitty pipes and the days when the toaster decides you need a little charcoal in your diet is nearly nonexistent. 

You think it loudly but you keep your mouth closed and watch the water fall instead. 

You’re not so cold anymore anyway.

Motivation’s never really been Bro’s thing. It’s never really been Rose’s either but for whatever reason they’ve both taken it upon themselves to set up some kind of self-help program that’s really lacking on the ‘self’ and more focused on the ‘them’ and whether you like it or not. 

And somewhere in the back of your mind, beyond the nagging and the metaphors you save especially for the late night conversations filled with purple text, you appreciate it. 

She cares, he cares, yeah, yeah—you get it.

But this guy… 

You don’t know why but this guy’s something special. 

There’s some kind of softness in his smile that really gets to you, in how polite he is to everyone at the corner. You don’t know what he’s really saying but you always imagine it’s gentle and friendly, polite in some kind of old school way that fits with the smooth edges of the hat he favors. He probably likes that sharp aftershave, the classic Old Spice, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he ironed the crisp edges of his collar, made the knot in his tie without even thinking. 

You imagine he likes his music slow and full and maybe he’s a dancer, maybe he just sways, one hand on the small of his partners back, chatting quietly as he guides them around the dance floor. 

You think he likes his coffee with a little bit of cream and a dash of sugar because his smile’s too sweet to like something so bitter. 

He reminds you of the domestic bliss you’ve spent the last however many years laughing at, the kind of thing you never really had and teased John relentlessly for. 

He’s everything you didn’t realize you wanted. 

And you don’t even know if that image could even be a reality. You don’t know what his name is or what he does, why he’s in the city or if he’s actually going to work. 

You don’t know anything about him and yet you instantly fell in love with his face, his seeming sincerity—those eyes— and the image they conjured in your mind, with that whispered promise, grounded in absolutely nothing, that this smile was one in a million. 

Even now it warms you down to your toes and you fumble with the shampoo, nearly dropping it, and when you set the bottle aside you realize you’re hands are shaking and you need to get out of the shower. 

You’re wasting time and you scrub viciously at your scalp, washing and rinsing in record time. You rub a hand over your face, wiping away the minty feel of the face wash haphazardly slapped over it and barely remember to shut the water off before you push the curtain back and grab for a towel. 

The lump of green situated on the sink counter beckons to you and you drag the towel over your skin even faster. 

It’s burning a hole in the counter, likely toxic.

On top of that, it’s just ugly. 

It’s probably some kind of crime. 

And it probably doesn’t matter and as you hurry out of the bathroom, you take it along with you. 

Boxers and a pair of jeans are your main priority, swapped out at the last second for a set of old slacks you’d bought for an interview a year or so ago. They’re not too wrinkled and a glance down confirms that they’ll do well, for this at least. They fit over your hips nicely, hugging all the right places while still managing to be comfortable and when you step over to grab the white button up Bro’d brought along as well, you make a mental note to wear them more often, even if it’s just around the house.

You hesitate though, fingers curling into the white cotton as your eyes catch on the parted curtain and the people barely visible down on the street. 

You’ve probably got ten minutes, maybe a little less before he’ll be walking down that street, presumably headed for home after a half day at work. 

Fridays are shorter for whatever reason but, for once, you don’t complain that it’s the start of the weekend. 

That thought in mind, you pull the shirt on, doing up the buttons as quickly as possible while still getting them lined up properly and reach for the mound of green wool. 

It’s soft, at least, and when you pull it on, you find it’s a little loose. 

You’re not really up to date on how your sweater vests are supposed to fit but you’re pretty sure they’re not supposed to feel like you’re wearing some kind of sheep-y bag. 

You probably look ridiculous. 

Lalonde would be laughing her ass right off on her way for the camera. 

John—well… you don’t even want to think about what John would say and figure it’s simpler to just assume no opportunity would go wasted with this one.

But, grabbing your wallet from the table and you set of keys, you also figure you don’t care. You push it all to the back of your mind because Bro’s somewhere—probably lurking up on the roof or holed up in his room—and you know with a certainty that’s got the corners of your lips twitching once more in some kind of pseudo-smile that he wouldn’t dream of laughing right now. 

And it’s stupid to think that, despite how much you believe it to be true but that doesn’t stop you. 

You’re jogging down six flights of stairs in a green sweater vest your brother picked out for you at god only knows where. Your cheeks are flushed and you feel like the biggest dumbass on the face of the planet but he believes in you. 

That asshole believes that you can do this. 

He’s got some kind of belated brotherly confidence that’s somehow manifested itself in the form of ugly knitting but you’re not going to question it. 

Later, you might. 

Later, you’ll probably look back on the whole fiasco and think it was some grade A stupidity and wonder what exactly your tap water had been drugged with. 

That’s cool though because right now the chilly air is hitting your face and you feel a drop of something wet hit your cheek that briefly stops you in your tracks. 

\--rain. 

It’s fucking _raining_ and you don’t bother to bite back a laugh as the drops begin to fall more steadily and you make your way down toward the bus stop. 

You guess it’s kind of fitting, really. 

It’s Seattle, after all, and you’re pretty sure there’s some cosmic law that says anything important happening has to have the sky’s watery blessing dumped down upon it before it can really be made official. 

You wouldn’t want to screw up any of that karma shit, not when you’re already out here, water seeping through the thick material of the sweater and clinging to the lenses of you shades. 

You’ve got a goal—a purpose.

And absolutely no idea what you’re going to say or do. 

You don’t have much time to dwell on it though and you take a quick step backward, automatically out of splash range, when the bus pulls over and the doors open. The current passengers exit and, for a moment, you get lost in the opening of umbrellas and the hurried steps as everyone going somewhere tries to pile on as quickly as possible and remain as dry as they can manage. 

You end up even further back, a few feet up the sidewalk you’d just jogged down and when a familiar, ratty umbrella passes you on the right, you whirl around and say the first thing that comes to mind. 

Well, to be fair, it comes out as more of a shout, really and you wince at the volume. Even to yourself that was a little loud. 

“I’m Dave!”

A few people look at you, one girl going so far as to wave and you feel your cheeks heat, the blush quickly traveling down, over you neck to disappear under you collar. 

It takes him a moment but his steps falter when you don’t move and he turns.

And for the first time, his eyes are on you. 

You can’t help but stare and when he smiles, something small and uncertain, probably questioning whether you were shouting at him and why you were even shouting in the first place, you don’t even care that you’re in the middle of a busy street and completely miss whatever he asked you.

You see his lips move, the little furrow that pulls his brow when you don’t answer. You see the way his head tippes to the side and holy shit, he looks different like this—up close and personal. 

He’s real— warm and breathing and smiling and _real_. 

He isn’t simply your imagination and that hope you’d been making a half-assed effort to tamp down comes roaring back, powering full steam ahead down the tracks laid out straight to your heart. 

And you know that sounds stupid. 

You get that this isn’t a movie and maybe you’re foolish to actually hope to god he doesn’t dismiss you as some weirdo on the street but you don’t care. 

You hope anyway and when a hand is set on your shoulder, light and hesitant, you don’t even have to force the sheepish smile that takes over. 

God, you’re an idiot.

“Sorry,” you tell him and when he waves it off, your smile widens just a bit.

“It’s perfectly fine.” His voice is smooth, that deep baritone that reminds you of slow jazz and cigarette smoke, fancy crystal tumblers and amber liquid. It’s warm, matching his smile, even with the concerned edge and this time you make sure to pay attention when speaks. “I’m afraid I missed what you said the first time, assuming you were speaking to me, of course…” 

You laugh as he trails off. It’s a little strained, a little tight, obviously this isn’t your best impression and he doesn’t look like he really knows how to respond to that but his smile remains firmly in place and, slowly, you hold out a hand. 

“I’m Dave,” you repeat—slower and, thankfully, much quieter this time. 

There’s a moment of silence before he takes it, fingers sliding over yours, palm to palm, and you’re not sure but you think your cheeks might be permanently stuck like this because you’re not sure you can possibly smile any wider. 

“James… it’s nice to meet you, Dave.” 

“You too.”

And it is. 

It really is. 

\-----

_“Good afternoon, Listeners, breaking news—everybody hold onto their seats, maybe take a potty break, and get ready because have I got a story for you… Oh yes, quite the story indeed. For the second time, down at the corner of 32nd and Bay during a rather badly timed bout of rain showers and some thick traffic, with just one look, I have fallen instantly in love.”_


End file.
